


But Come What May (I Do Adore Thee So)

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Prompt: Jack (or Phryne...equal opportunity, really) gets injured or becomes ill. leading to angst/emoting on the part of the other.  Basic hurt/comfort...go for it!  But with a happy ending, please!Jack follows Phryne to London, but what he finds is very different from what he expected.





	But Come What May (I Do Adore Thee So)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slimwhistler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimwhistler/gifts).



> I wrote this fic nearly two years ago, my first real, longer fic for this fandom. It's staggering to realise how much has happened in those two years. The amazing comments and support I got on this was a big factor in why I stayed in the fandom, and I was very sorry to lose them. Still, the response from teh fandom at large to this incident goes a long way to ALSO explaining why I stay. You guys are the best. 
> 
> (I will also be reuploading my ficathon fics from teh second ficathon as well. I'm having a harder time remembering who they were gifted to though, and will take longer to restore.)

Dr. Elizabeth MacMillan was just signing off on an autopsy report when there was a knock on her office door. She looked up to find one of the interns holding an envelope.

"This just arrived, Doctor."

Mac took it, muttering a gruff “thank you.” It was always helpful to keep the lackeys fearful. It was a telegram from Phryne's mother. How odd. She opened it.

> PHRYNE ILL STOP DR ASKED ABOUT RECENT MED HISTORY STOP P DELIRIOUS STOP WHO THE H IS INSP ROBINSON QUERY

Mac worried her lip, lighting a cigarette as she considered the telegram. Phryne had always been in good health, but her hare-brained scheme to fly to England would have no doubt depleted her resources. More importantly, Lady Fisher telegraphing her instead of just asking Phryne was ominous, the implication being that she had been unresponsive for long enough to raise serious concerns. And why the hell was she asking after Inspector Robinson? Phryne never called him that, not unless she was trying to invoke his authority. Mac penned her response, determined to send the message immediately. 

> FIT AS FIDDLE WITH NO REL HISTORY STOP INSP R EN ROUTE ARRIVE OCT SEVEN SOUTHAMPTON STOP KEEP INFORMED

"Bennett!" she called out the door. 

Fearful lackeys really were the best lackeys, and Bennett scurried back in.

"See this gets sent off immediately."

Mac wondered whether she should telegraph Jack on the ship as well, then decided she had better not. The bloody fool would probably attempt to swim the rest of the way. 

\----------

Jack stood at the railing of the ship, searching the port's crowd for Miss Fisher. Phryne. Even the thought of her name was enough to make him grin wildly, their hurriedly exchanged telegrams in his pocket the only thing that kept him from taking flight from sheer, buoyant joy.

> ARRIVE OCT SEVEN ON ORIENT STOP NEED LONDON ADDRESS

> TOO LONG TO WAIT MEET YOU THERE

She would no doubt be colourfully dressed, determined as ever to stand out. A solid pillar of red or white or blue against the unyielding brownness of cargo and working men. It was unnecessary; Jack would spot her anywhere.

Just not on the docks.

He ignored the sliver of anxiety that he felt—perhaps they were early, or Phryne was late. Perhaps his view was obscured. He stayed as long as possible at the railing; spotting each other would be more difficult from the ground. He finally admitted defeat, however, and disembarked.

He almost overlooked the small, dark-haired man holding a placard saying "Inspector Robinson" standing at the bottom of the ramp.

"I'm Inspector Robinson. Did Miss Fisher send you?" he asked.

The man shook his head. 

"Lady Fisher," he said, chewing a wad of tobacco. "Name's Jameson. Follow me."

Jack followed him to a black car, loading his two small cases in the back before taking his seat.

"Could Miss Fisher not make it?" he asked.

The man shrugged.

"The miss is ill."

"Too late a night?"

It would be just his luck, the one day her iron constitution bent to the power of too many cocktails.

"No sir. The miss is ill. The doctor's been, but Lady Fisher ain't saying much. Reckon it's the flu, myself."

Influenza? There wasn't a person old enough to remember the Spanish pandemic who could hear such a thing without concern. It did not particularly help that Jack was inclined to be worried by nature, even if that worry was generally misplaced when it came to Miss Fisher. No, the fear tightening his chest was almost entirely unfounded. A bowl of chicken soup and a deferment of strenuous exercise would be all that was needed. 

"How quickly can you get to London?"

His voice was not as steady as he would have liked.

"Two and a half, maybe three hours," the driver said.

"Make it in two."

\----------

Phryne's home in Mayfair was, from the outside, rather imposing. It was a Georgian building of dark brick, but the windows were framed with bright red bricks that drew the eye. It was the sort of detail that Phryne would no doubt love.

Jameson insisted on carrying the luggage, and Jack followed him into the house and through the parlour. A butler greeted them and introduced himself as Mr. Fitzwilliam, then retreated to inform Lady Fisher of the guest.

" _You_ are Inspector Robinson?" 

Phryne's mother was a tall, imposing woman who regarded Jack critically. He looked down, realising the dishevelled impression he must be making; he had dressed carefully that morning in anticipation of seeing Phryne, but the intervening hours had taken their toll. At some point his tie—the one he always thought of as Phryne's tie, after he had purchased it for their thwarted dinner plans—had been loosened, though he didn't remember doing so; his suit jacket was unbuttoned; the blue knit sweater vest he had donned instead of his usual waistcoat, a vague attempt to appear at leisure was mercifully free of wrinkles, but a corner of his shirt was peeking from beneath the hem. He shuddered to think what his hair looked like; he'd used only a small amount of pomade that morning, and he'd spent half the car journey running his hands through it as a distraction. 

"Yes, I am."

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Do you know of any particular reason my daughter would be requesting you presence?"

The journey had been just over two hours, and he found himself both worried and bad-tempered. Coy games were not in his repertoire.

"Some context would be required, if I'm to conclude that you cannot ask her yourself."

Phryne's mother laughed, all trace of severity gone. All that was left was deep concern.

"I'm not sure what Jameson told you, but Phryne arrived three weeks ago. She was tired, but well enough to roundly set her father off over some quarrel. We spoke a few times, but only briefly. And so it was, until her staff called me late last week to inform me that she had been found unconscious. The only thing we've been able to get out of her in her fevered state is a request to see Inspector Robinson, and when I wrote to her dearest friend I found that you were already en route! Most peculiar."

"Not peculiar in the least," Jack said. "Phry— Miss Fisher requested my presence in London, and it was arranged before she took ill. I am surprised that Lord Fisher didn't mention it."

"Ah," said Lady Fisher. "My husband has been quite busy with... personal matters. You aren't the police officer Phryne's written about? I hope she wasn't in need of your professional services."

"I don't believe so," replied Jack. He suspected that Lady Fisher was angling for information, and that his slip had not gone unnoticed. "If she's asking for me, perhaps it's best I see her."

"She's resting now."

"I will insist all the same," he asserted.

"This is most unusual."

"So you've already observed," said Jack dryly. "Please direct me to her rooms."

"Inspector Robinson, you _are_ peculiar."

"You may as well call me Jack," he said. "I have no authority here, and I expect that we will see quite a bit of one another while Miss Fisher is unwell."

"Very well, Jack," said Lady Fisher. There was a spark in her eyes that was reminiscent of Phryne and it gave Jack the disconcerting feeling that she had been assessing him. "Follow me then, and keep quiet."

Phryne laid in bed, nearly swallowed up by the pillows and blankets piled high around her. Her skin was ashen, her hair limp. He had often wished that Miss Fisher would stop moving, if only for a moment, but such stillness was unnerving.

"What has the doctor said?"

"Influenza. Rest, fluids, and aspirin to begin."

"The prognosis?"

"Her delirium has lasted longer than he would like. But she is resilient and we have reason to be hopeful."

"Good," Jack nodded. He turned his attentions to Mr. Fitzwilliam. "I'll need a cot bed. And some damp towels, if you'd be so—"

"I'm not entirely sure that would be proper," Phryne's mother interrupted.

Jack almost snorted. He thought that propriety between himself and Phryne had flown out the window somewhere between the fan dance at the gentlemen’s club and the killer theming his murders to "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

"With all due respect, Lady Fisher, I've generally found that Phryne gets what she wants. If she's asking for me, then I'll stay here."

Arrangements were made over Lady Fisher's occasional objections, and Jack settled in to wait. He read as a distraction, barely taking in the words, and stopped occasionally to re-moisten the towels he used to cool her flushed skin. It was nearly six hours before he heard her stir. He shifted, placing his book on the table and turning his attention to his patient. He poured her a tumbler of water, pressing the glass against her lips. She winced in pain as she took a small sip.

"Miss Fisher?"

She was regarding him with fevered eyes, confusion evident.

"Phryne?" he asked again, reaching forward to touch her brow. Still scorching.

"You're not wearing a suit!" croaked Phryne.

Jack laughed. He had discarded the jacket and tie completely, and had rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

"No, I'm not. I thought that I had better make myself comfortable if I'm to be playing nursemaid."

"I bet you'd look good in a nursing cap. Très chic," Phryne managed weakly before closing her eyes again. "I'm glad you're here."

"Of course, Miss Fisher. Rest now."

She was already snoring.

\----------

The next few days were critical and passed in a blur. The fever ebbed and flowed; at its peak it would leave her delirious and thrashing, and when it abated she slept like the dead. Jack left the room only when the maids came to change Phryne's clothes in the morning, an endless cycle of cotton nightgowns that looked like nothing she had ever worn. He dozed when she slept, held her hand and willed her to breathe when it became particularly laboured, pressed cool cloths against her forehead when the fever raged.

The doctor came twice a day; once while the maids were changing her, and once in the afternoon. He didn't comment on Jack's presence, a much appreciated mercy.

"There's nothing we can do but wait," he told Lady Fisher, but cast a sympathetic look at Jack as he said it. "It seems to have progressed to pneumonia as well, which is not ideal. If she was weak she'd be gone by now, but nobody can be strong forever."

"Phryne can," Jack asserted.

He didn't realise he had said it out loud until Lady Fisher came into the room a few minutes later with a cup of tea.

"My daughter relies on others more than she cares to admit,” she said, sitting beside Jack on the edge of the cot. “She's built herself an entire family in Melbourne, a substitution for the one who failed her so spectacularly."

Jack sighed. She was probably correct, but it was hardly diplomatic to agree.

“You don't fly halfway around the world for just anyone,” he said instead.

“You or her?” asked Lady Fisher.

“Her,” said Jack firmly, then allowed himself a sardonic smile. “I came by boat.”

Phryne's mother snorted softly.

"Drink the tea," Lady Fisher said. "Keep your strength up." 

After that, it was Lady Fisher who brought his meals. Sometimes she stayed, spoke to Phryne about what she had done that day; social commitments that could not be waylaid for a sick daughter, an amusing novel she had read. The first time Jack stood to withdraw, give mother and daughter privacy.

"Stay. She needs her family more than she needs me," Lady Fisher said. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Phryne's forehead wistfully. "She never really had a need for me, even as a child."

Jack didn't argue. Phryne had most certainly needed Margaret Fisher, but she'd found her own way to live without her mother’s support. It was a test of strength that Jack never wanted to endure himself. He'd survive, of course; he had survived through war, death, divorce, the fall of a mentor. Survival was necessary. Living was optional. He stayed.

The fever was always worst in the night. Her cheeks would flush, illness managing what years of social defiance never could. It would start with low moaning, a restless shifting that Jack would try to still with a drink of water and another dose of aspirin. It would surge in intensity, her limbs ultimately thrashing so wildly that he sought to restrain her, the heat of her skin burning his. The worst, however, was the moment when the medicine began to work; she would seemingly regain control over her body, sit up against her pillows, and fix him with an intense stare.

"I need to speak with Inspector Robinson," she said, each word perfectly enunciated.

No response from him— _I'm here_ , or _What do you need Miss Fisher?_ or even _I'll see if he's in_ —seemed to calm her; she would repeat it until she finally fell asleep.

Jack asked Lady Fisher after the second night.

"It's always been Inspector Robinson she's asked for," Lady Fisher said. "I don't think she's ever called you that in your letters; it wasn't until you got here that I made the connection between Inspector Robinson and the policeman Jack she was running circles about."

Jack laughed at that.

"Her later letters were far nicer," Lady Fisher conceded, and she actually smiled at him.

The requests for Inspector Robinson persisted, the gap between reality and the world in her head insurmountable. It culminated on the fourth night; her calm request to see Inspector Robinson became more frantic. She shied away when he tried to to calm her, adamant that she needed Inspector Robinson immediately. Suddenly her attention had been caught by something over his shoulder, and she lurched forward with a cry. 

"Jack!"

He caught her before she fell off the bed, but she struggled against him in a desperate bid to reach whatever it was she saw. Clawed and thrashed. Then suddenly a low keening sound sprung from her and she collapsed against him, sobbing. He pulled her close, murmured comforting platitudes until she fell asleep.

In the morning, the maid came to change the sheets as well as the bedclothes. Jack shifted Phryne's still form to the cot bed for the interim, pressed a kiss against her forehead because he suddenly found he couldn't bear not to.

"You do make romantic overtures difficult," he said, covering her shivering frame with a blanket. "I can hardly improve with you in this state."

The maid, bless her, was resolutely staring at a painting on the wall. 

Jack took the opportunity to shave and take a longer shower than he previously had. There was still time to waste once he was dressed, so he wandered through the house and found himself in the library. He browsed the books, regarding titles with intense interest. He ultimately settled on _Around the World in Eighty Days_ ; not his favourite Jules Verne—that had always been _The Mysterious Island_ , for reasons unclear to even him—but one he had read so many times in his childhood that he knew it almost by heart.

On his return he found the doctor exiting the bedroom, Lady Fisher following behind. Their sombre expressions made Jack's heart lurch, his grip tighten around the novel to the point of pain.

"Phryne?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Less responsive than yesterday, I'm afraid. I think we should be prepared for the worst."

"Right," said Jack with a nod, because no other words came to mind. "I'll just go back in then."

Phryne had been moved back to her bed. The new sheets were darker. Or perhaps she was just paler. For the first time he allowed himself to contemplate the possibility that she might not recover. He slumped into the chair, and ran his hand through his hair.

“Phryne...” he reached out to hold her hand, limp and clammy in his. “Don't do this. Please. Not _this_. Stay in London. Never speak to me again. Let every man in Europe sweep you off your feet. Just don't do this.”

In the answering silence all that could be heard was her intense wheezing, far too reminiscent of a death rattle. He pulled the chair closer, opened the book, and began to read aloud. Anything was better than the quiet.

" _Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens..._ "

He read through the morning and into late afternoon, stopping only long enough to take a sip of water when his mouth ran dry. If she was to fade away, she would not be alone. As the sunlight began to dim, he reached the end of the book.

“ _But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey? Nothing, you say?_ " His voice cracked. He took a deep breath, determined to finish. " _Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men! Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?_ ”

He paused, unable to bring himself to shut the cover. There was an aching sense of finality in doing so.

"It all sounds rather dramatic to me," came a weak voice from the bed.

A million unspoken words sprang to mind— _Thank God_ and _I love you_ and _Don't die because I need you. You have rooted yourself so deeply into my life that I am left utterly bereft without you._

"So good of you to join us, Miss Fisher," he managed, looking up in disbelief.

She had turned her head to watch him. She was exhausted and pale, but there was something bewitching about her smile. It was the smile of the living.

"I've been drifting in and out since Calcutta. You really do have a marvellous voice."

He cried. He collapsed into the back of the chair, paying no mind to the book when it fell to the floor, closed his eyes, and sobbed from sheer relief. When he thought the tears were done, he felt her place her hand tentatively on his knee as if to comfort him—comfort HIM—and he cried again, grasping the proffered hand like a lifeline.

\----------

It wasn't until the next day that Jack allowed himself to begin to believe in her recovery, despite repeated reassurances from the doctor. She had even dressed herself in the morning, looking far more Phryne-like in a silk robe. Propped up against her pillows and her colour already improved, she ate her third bowl of soup with relish.

"I don't know how you did it, Jack," Phryne said, eyeing the cot. "My mother was no doubt scandalised."

"I think she was so concerned about your health that she listened to anyone willing to exert the least bit of authority."

"And you were willing?" she teased.

"I have a lot of experience in managing demanding women," said Jack, almost keeping a straight face as he did so.

She was quiet for a moment, her energy flagging. She moved the spoon around her bowl listlessly, appetite seemingly gone, then glanced at him.

"I never—I just... thank you. For being here. You didn't have to be."

As if his loyalty meant that little. He sat down on the bed beside her.

"Do you need anything?"

"I need you to leave the house."

"Right. I'll just—"

He moved to stand.

"No!" she interjected, grabbing his hand. He sunk back onto the mattress. "That was not at _all_ what I meant. My head is still a little foggy. I'm on the mend, Jack, but the doctor insists that I should stay in bed for a few weeks yet. The idea is enough to make me stir crazy—especially as Mother is threatening to stay at least another week—but if I had you reporting in on all the sights it might just be bearable. Please? Besides, you must have _some_ stories to tell when we get back to Melbourne."

"Somehow I doubt even Collins expects me to see more than these four walls."

Her bright laughter morphed into a coughing fit, and Jack rubbed her back.

"I do like London in the autumn," she said.

It was impossible to deny her.

"Then London in the autumn you can have," he replied.

He left in the mornings; sometimes for an hour, sometimes for the entire day. He found himself imagining conversations with Phryne while he was out—wherever he went, he saw her. When evening fell he was back by her side. They'd sit in adjacent armchairs—first in her bedroom, then the library when she regained some mobility—curled on the seat in front of the fire with cocoa, and Jack would tell her where he'd found her that day. When she was exhausted, he would read to her; poetry and novels and Shakespeare's comedies, the soothing rhythm of his voice and the crackling of the fire lulling her into sleep. 

\---

The first day had been sunny, so he’d walked past Buckingham Palace, down the tree-lined Mall and past the Admiralty Arch to stand in Trafalgar Square. People had streamed past Jack, every one of them on their way to somewhere else. Some had stopped, looked around as if to be able to say they had seen it, then continued towards their next destination.

"It's an impressive erection," Phryne said of Nelson's Column when he’d told her about it. "Shame they don't give it proper attention."

Her voice was entirely too innocent. He sipped his drink, if only to hide his smirk behind the cup.

He had watched the people and studied their idiosyncrasies for amusing anecdotes. When a light rain began, he’d headed into the National Portrait Gallery. Standing in front of the Chandos Portrait, he somehow felt like he was face to face with the real Shakespeare. It was the small stippled engraving of Jane Austen that really struck him, though. He had first read her books during the war; Austen's novels had been given to him and many other traumatised soldiers, and he had found comfort in her sharp wit.

Phryne nodded when he mentioned it.

"I read and reread them myself," she admitted. She yawned. "Would you read to me?"

He found _Emma_ on the shelf.

"I do hope you aren't hinting at something," Phryne said, managing a weak smile. She shivered slightly, and Jack leaned over to cover her with a throw before taking his seat and beginning to read.

" _Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her...._ "

\---

At the British Museum, he’d seen a silver denarius with Mark Antony and Cleopatra on opposing sides, the placard suggesting there was dissent within the community about which face was intended to be the front. Jack was inclined to think Cleopatra, though he had to admit to some bias.

Phryne clearly expected him to recite Shakespeare that night, but he turned instead to his well-read copy of Zane Grey's _The Rainbow Trail_.

“ _Red Lake must be his Rubicon. Either he must enter the unknown to seek, to strive, to find, or turn back and fail and never know and be always haunted._ ”

\---

He’d snipped a late-blooming rose, the exact shade of Phryne's lipstick, when he’d visited Kew Gardens.

"How very naughty, Jack," she laughed, placing it above her ear. "I fear I have corrupted you."

"Irrevocably, Miss Fisher," he acknowledged with a lopsided grin. 

She requested a book he'd never read that night, a slim and worn copy of _Anne of Avonlea_.

"I brought it from Australia with me when my father inherited," she explained. "I have beautiful editions of all of them at home, though I hadn't read them in years until I landed last month. I could never bear to part from the originals."

There was a bookmark two-thirds of the way through, and he picked up where she had left off before her illness. He read for awhile, noting a certain sort of sodality between Phryne and Anne despite their seemingly disparate lives. Occasionally he would come upon some passage that had been underlined, presumably by a younger and far more sentimental Miss Fisher. There was one such marked passage near the end. 

“ _Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath._ ”

He stole a look at her then, noticing that she had fallen asleep in the chair. He closed the book and carried her to bed, carefully removing the flower from her hair and leaving it on the bedside table.

\---

He read from D.H. Lawrence’s _Sons and Lovers_ one evening after spending the day at the National Gallery of British Art, but it quickly devolved into an animated conversation about the rules and regulations surrounding the game of Conkers: Two nuts secured to strings bashed together until one broke, the winning conker gaining a point for every win. The only legal way to strengthen a conker was time—a year at a minimum the ideal—though ingenious people had devised other options.

"Weren't you a little old for children's games when you came here?" Jack asked.

"Nonsense! There's nothing childish about two people hitting nuts on a string!" Phryne laughed back at him, her eyes sparkling.

That would have been the end of it, but as he walked through one of the parks the next day he found himself pocketing several smooth horse chestnuts.

"Go on then," he said that evening. "Teach me."

He was the victor when she called time, but she vowed to beat him the next day. She did, thoroughly, but the achievement was lessened when he examined her sixer to find that it had been baked.

"I have no idea how that could have happened," she said innocently, eyelashes fluttering.

\---

He’d wandered through Regent's Park with a vague plan to see the zoo or perhaps take a turn on the boating lake, but instead, he stumbled upon a small theatre company performing _Twelfth Night,_ near the gardens of St. John's Lodge.

"The old police code?" she asked, eyes dancing. Clearly she had reconciled the conversation she’d overheard between Jack and Hugh back at Maiden Creek with the timing of Hugh and Miss Williams' engagement.

"I believe it's been used for the purpose," Jack’s smile was small and knowing, even as he prevaricated.

"You'll have to refresh my memory then," she smiled. "I would hate to be at a disadvantage."

He thought for a moment, considering and discarding several passages before settling upon Antonio's reasons for following Sebastian to Illyria. 

“ _I could not stay behind you. My desire,_  
_More sharp than filèd steel, did spur me forth._  
_And not all love to see you, though so much_  
_As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,_  
_But jealousy what might befall your travel,_  
_Being skilless in these parts, which to a stranger,_  
_Unguided and unfriended, often prove_  
_Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,_  
_The rather by these arguments of fear,_  
_Set forth in your pursuit._ ”

“Yes,” said Phryne, nodding. Her smile was somewhat tremulous. “I can see how it would be useful.”

\---

One day, he’d called in a wartime favour in order to tour The Black Museum at Scotland Yard, a collection of evidence and artifacts spanning the last fifty years of London crime. He didn't read that night; Phryne was too busy asking about everything he had seen: evidence from the Stratton case, which was the first conviction secured through the use of fingerprints; the wide variety of lockpick tools and hidden weaponry; the infamous From Hell letter that was somehow intriguing in addition to its horribleness.

"And did you solve any cases while you were there?" Phryne asked, her eyes avid with interest.

"Afraid not. Without your interference I live a very peaceful life." Jack’s response was ironic.

"Dull, you mean?"

He raised his mug in a toast.

"That too."

\---

"Are you up for an adventure?" Jack asked one morning. Her recovery was going remarkably well, all things considered. "I've arranged a jail break, _if_ you agree to be good."

When he saw the glint in her eyes, he almost regretted it. Almost.

"I'll be on my very best behaviour," she promised.

"That's not nearly as comforting as it should be," he laughed. "Get a coat and hat while I retrieve the hamper. And do it quietly."

"A picnic?"

He gestured out the window to the beautiful weather.

"It's likely the last nice day of autumn. We can't have you miss it entirely."

The jail break was pre-arranged with the blessings of the doctor, but the rebellion of sneaking away was no doubt part of the appeal to Phryne. They slipped out of the house and caught a taxicab to Hyde Park. They strolled along, arms linked, until they found a quiet spot beneath a tree to take lunch. Jack solicitously spread the blanket and helped her down. They sat in a companionable silence as they watched the Serpentine glimmer in the autumn sunlight, the crisp scents of fall delighting them. When their meal was done, Phryne laid her head in his lap.

"I don't suppose you brought a book?" she asked.

He reached over, extracting a small collection of T. S. Eliot's poetry from the wicker hamper. She closed her eyes, and Jack stroked her hair absent-mindedly. 

" _Let us go then, you and I..._ "

\---

It took him three days to explore the Natural History Museum to his satisfaction. Those days coincided with absolutely torrential rains, and he was always waterlogged by the time he stepped into the foyer of the townhouse.

"Welcome to the joys of London," she smirked the first time, having spent the day wrapped warmly at home. Still, she made a point to greet him at the door with a towel every time.

On the third day there was a brief reprieve from the onslaught, and he took the advantage to walk along the road instead of the underground tunnel that stretched from the museums to South Kensington station. Naturally he had only gotten across the road when the skies opened once more; he ducked into the nearest restaurant for cover and a cup of tea, only to find that it bore a striking resemblance to Cafe Replique in Melbourne. That was not the sort of light-hearted memory he wished to share, but he found that they made quite a nice French onion soup, and he wheedled the proprietor into providing a container to go.

"With cognac! How did you know?" she asked.

\---

They went to Brighton near the end of November, renting a two-bedroom suite at the Royal Albion and watching people on the pier from the window.

"Up for a stroll?" he asked, offering his arm.

They ate crepes and walked along the promenade, chatting about things of little consequence. The wind blew so wildly that her hat flew off, and Jack chased it onto the beach. Watching her laugh, hair whipping wildly, he realised he was hers utterly and completely; that she was twined so deeply into his soul that there was no escape left. He loped back towards her, hat in hand. His hand brushed her cheek as he resecured the hat. A pause, a heartbeat of time; her lips parted, her eyes shining.

"I find myself breathless," she whispered.

His hands dropped to his side and he took a half-step backwards.

"Of course, Miss Fisher. It was thoughtless of me to keep you out this long."

Hours later, alone in his room, he wished he had kissed her.

\---

She was quiet when they returned from Brighton, withdrawn. He assumed that travelling had exhausted her and tried very hard not to notice her absence in the library after dinners. It lasted for nearly a week, then one day she steamed in with a letter in her hand and colour in her cheeks.

"My parents feel that a three-week visit will suffice for Christmas. _Suffice_! In bloody Somerset, which is the absolute arse-end of nowhere as far an entertainment goes. And we'd have to pack and leave the day after tomorrow. Insufferable..."

She threw herself into the unoccupied chair, crossing her arms as if daring him to argue.

"Good evening, Miss Fisher," Jack said placidly.

"Don't 'good evening' me, Jack. You'll need to come too, or I'm liable to commit homicide after the third day,” Phryne chastised. A thought seemed to strike her, as she bolted upright quite suddenly. “Oh! _And_ mother doesn't allow mistletoe after the incident with my father and the maid at the Christmas party six years ago, so there goes that diversion. It's absolutely hopeless!"

She slumped back into the seat again. Jack wondered if he should point out that she did not need to answer the summons, then decided he quite liked his head where it was. Phryne's tempestuous relationship with her family was so different than the quiet, reserved love of his that he was left unsure of how to proceed.

“Are you well enough for the travelling?” he asked instead. “Somerset's quite a bit further than Brighton.”

She scowled at him.

“Must you always be so fastidious?” she snapped. “I'm not quite up for climbing Ben Nevis, but I'm hardly an invalid to be coddled.”

As she stood and left the room with an irritable shake of her head, Jack was left with the not-entirely-unfamiliar feeling that he was missing half of the conversation. 

\----------

They made their way to her parents' in near silence; she drove as fast as the car would allow and tapped nervously on the wheel the entire time, Jack stared out the window at the passing scenery, Blake's green and pleasant land evident in the rolling fields even in December's gloomy sunlight.

They arrived at the Fisher estate in late afternoon; the modest house he had been promised was, in fact, a sprawling nine bedroom country estate with two guest cottages, stables, and a small lake on the property.

She grinned at him, clearly reading his thoughts.

“It's smaller than Aunt Prudence's, Jack” she chided, removing her driving gloves crisply. “Come on.”

Phryne leapt out of the car and headed towards the door.

“That is not a reasonable standard, Miss Fisher!” he called after her.

She merely laughed.

Inside they were greeted by a butler and the housekeeper, and their belongings were dispatched to the assigned bedrooms in separate wings.

“You'll want to prepare for dinner, Miss,” said the housekeeper. “And if Mr. Robinson would follow Thomas—” she nodded to one of the younger servants. “—he can dress as well.”

Phryne leant close to him and grinned conspiratorially.

“Full dinner dress, Jack,” she whispered. “My father is an absolute stickler for etiquette when we have company.”

Jack could understand that. The Baron was charming, but given his less-than-auspicious background the observation of certain conventions was undoubtedly necessary. Especially if the... eccentricities he had displayed in Melbourne were to be borne in polite society.

Dinner proved to be the first in a series of social commitments that made it difficult for them to spend any real time together. Luncheons, afternoon teas, and dinners were too formal for real conversation, and there were other guests Phryne was expected to entertain—several charming young men in particular, the sons of her parents' friends. Jack found he held himself firmly to the words he had uttered in desperation; Phryne was alive, and watching her occasional flirtations was a small price to pay.

\---

After a heavy snowfall one night, Phryne caught him at the breakfast table just before nine, uncharacteristically early for her.

“We don't have a lunch today, so nobody will notice if we take the skis for a few hours,” she said quietly. “We've got all the outerwear, so go change into something warm and meet me by the back door in ten minutes. There's a darling little folly you should see.”

He did as requested, exchanging his trousers for a warmer pair with long underwear beneath and donning a burgundy jumper before heading towards the back door. Phryne was in the nearest closet, which was really a small room they used to keep the winter gear. She turned when he entered, eyeing him appraisingly.

“Here,” she said, offering him a thick coat. 

It fit perfectly. Next came a hat and mittens, which he put on immediately. It made the scarf she passed him next difficult to secure, and he went to remove the gloves.

“Let me,” Phryne said quietly.

He lowered his head so she could loop the scarf around his neck and tuck it beneath his coat. She patted his chest, her hands lingering for longer than was necessary; he looked at her. The small space between them hung heavy, the desire in her eyes as powerful as the desire pounding through him. It would be so easy to close the distance—

The door behind them opened.

“Damn,” whispered Phryne, taking a step back.

“Oh, hello!” The intruder said; it was one of the other guests, a friend of Lady Fisher. “Are you going skiing? Your father was just telling me about a path down past the lake and over to the folly.”

Phryne winced, but quickly became the ever-gracious host.

“We were just headed there ourselves, Mrs. Caruthers. Would you care to join us?”

When they eventually reached the folly, a small tower with stained glass windows in the middle of the woods, Mrs. Caruthers looked at it wistfully.

”How romantic! Especially with the fresh snow, and the quiet. It's really quite charming.”

“I hadn't noticed,” said Phryne dryly.

\---

They had no chance to speak privately over the next few days, although Jack would occasionally find Phryne watching him as he watched her. Quietly. Uncertainly. Then she would shake her head and the moment would pass, returning to her usual vibrant self.

On the evening of her birthday, he stumbled into the library as he sought refuge from the raucous celebrations. The lighting was dim and he didn't immediately notice her curled up on the chaise lounge with an untouched flute of champagne in her hands.

"Not dancing the night away, Miss Fisher?" he asked when he did spy her.

She blinked, surprised to see him; clearly she'd been so lost in thought she hadn't heard his entrance.

"I'm just thinking of last year," she said quietly.

Of course. He sat down beside her, close enough for their shoulders to brush. The shadows had been haunting him as well. The fear that he had been too late somehow echoing in their current situation, the danger not a poison this time but their own inertia.

"Phryne, dear!" called her mother from outside the room.

Phryne sighed, downed her champagne, and went back to the party.

\---

Jack woke up on Christmas morning to find a filled stocking laid at the foot of his bed. He opened it curiously; an orange, some lemon sherbets, an ornately decorated leather book mark, a pair of thick socks, and the latest Zane Gray novel.

When he went down to breakfast, he sat next to Miss Fisher.

“Do I have you to thank for the stocking?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head slightly.

“Not me. It was probably Mother—I've been subjected to several lectures on my ungratefulness towards you, so you've obviously won her over.”

Jack recoiled slightly at the idea.

“I would never—” he began quietly, stealing a look around at the other guests to ensure they weren't listening.

“I know, Jack,” Phryne hurriedly reassured him. “Mother's just prone to blowing matters out of proportion. You should have seen her the first time I turned down a marriage proposal.”

They shared a small, surreptitious smile.

“I do have something for you though,” she said, pulling a small package from some hidden pocket—well, he sincerely hoped it was a pocket—and passing it to him beneath the table. “I didn't want to leave it with the rest of the gifts, so don't open it now.”

Jack sighed, tucking the gift into his pocket to examine later.

“I'm afraid I haven't anything to give you,” he admitted.

Somehow Christmas had snuck up on him.

“Don't be ridiculous, Jack,” she said, her eyes soft. “You gave me all of London. Now eat your breakfast.”

\---

Most of the guests left early on Boxing Day, and Jack was hoping he could actually spend time with Miss Fisher. It was not to be—Phryne had a blazing row with her father over lunch, both of them yelling over perceived transgressions and moral failings; Jack had to intervene before it came to blows. Phryne just glared at him and stormed off, muttering under her breath about honourable men in a way that made her scathing view of honour abundantly clear. Jack stood helplessly in the middle of the Fishers’ dining room until she came stomping back a minute later.

"Get packing, Jack! I've had quite enough of this place."

They were halfway back to London when she spoke to him; she looked vaguely embarrassed by the whole thing.

"I don't know why I let him rile me up," she admitted. “I know it's like talking to a brick wall, yet I run full tilt into it every time.”

“Well, I've never known you to back down from a challenge,” smiled Jack, hoping to bring a little levity to the conversation.

She chuckled.

“Thank you, though. Really. I'm afraid I was about two sentences away from chucking Mother's vase at him.” 

\----------

Jack found himself ending the first full year with Phryne Fisher in his life at a party in Soho, the maddening woman beside him. Her red, beaded chiffon dress left very little to the imagination, the scalloped layers swaying as she moved. Its colour was a perfect match for his tie, found in the box she has so furtively handed him on Christmas Day. She had told him that the party was a veritable who's who of up and coming artists, but he'd been too struck by her to notice.

"You know, Jack," she said with a sultry grin, "it's tradition to kiss at midnight."

"Is it?" His mouth went dry and his heart began to pound wildly. The din of the crowd waiting the countdown faded as he focused on the shape of her mouth. Remembered the way she tasted, the softness of her lips. Was it really four months ago they had stood at the airfield, so much exchanged in just a single moment?

"Oh yes. There's all sorts of superstitions about it."

She was coyly playing with the lapel of his suit.

"You don't strike me as the superstitious sort," he teased lightly.

His hand came to rest on her hip.

"Well, with so much on the line it's better to be safe than sorry."

"What _is_ on the line, Miss Fisher?"

 _Besides my heart_ , he added silently.

"Well, if you don't get a kiss you're supposed to be lonely all year."

He was peripherally aware of people beginning the countdown. Ten.

"Sounds awful."

Nine.

"And if you do—" Eight. "it ensures that you will remain close to that person all year."

Seven.

"Better."

Six.

"I thought so." Five. "That's not the best one though."

Four.

"No?"

Three. She leaned up to whisper in his ear, her entire lithe body pressed against him. His fingers tightened against her hip. Two.

"Tradition says that you're guaranteed a... pleasurable climax to the day."

One.

He kissed her. Or she kissed him. He was never quite sure afterwards, and he didn't really care. Her arms were around his neck, pulling him towards her; his hands were tangled in her hair; she moaned against his lips so wantonly he forgot they were in a room full of people singing _Auld Lang Syne_. When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless.

"You made that last one up," he accused, smiling.

"Well, that's up to you, isn't it?"

He shrugged and allowed his hands to roam against her exposed skin. Relished the look in her eyes, a mixture of need and desire and hope. Felt the long year stretching ahead of him, brimming with promise and begging to be filled for her. _With_ her.

"Who am I to argue with tradition?"

She moved to stand beside him, held his hand. Together they joined the rest of the party in the final verse of _Auld Lang Syne_.

“ _And there’s a hand my trusty friend!_  
_And give me a hand o’ thine!_  
_And we’ll take a right good-will draught,_  
_for auld lang syne._

 _For auld lang syne, my dear,_  
_for auld lang syne,_  
_we'll take a cup of kindness yet,_  
_for auld lang syne._ ”

As the song ended, she laid her head against his shoulder.

“Night cap?” he asked, trusting she would understand.

She nodded. “Let's go home.”

  



End file.
